


THE BEST IS YET TO COME

by mydogwatson



Series: WHILE THE MUSIC LASTS [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Picnics, bad behavior with innocent strawberries, pink polo shirt, preslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-26 16:21:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/968048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every day for 30 days I put my iPod on shuffle and whatever song came up was used as inspiration to write a story.  Although there is a vague continuing theme, there was no effort to tie the stories together.  A few sequels are marked as such and a number of the pieces would fit together in the same universe easily.</p>
<p>If anyone thinks I own Sherlock and John, they are sadly mistaken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	THE BEST IS YET TO COME

**Author's Note:**

> The title of the series was inspired by this verse by T.S. Eliot: Music heard so deeply, That it is not heard at all, but you are the music, While the music lasts.
> 
> That pretty much says it all.

one

THE BEST IS YET TO COME  
mydogwatson

The best is yet to come,  
Come the day you’re mine.  
We’ve only tasted the wine,  
We’re gonna drink the cup dry.  
-Michael Buble

 

John Watson had learned long ago to take on board any of the good things that life offered him and be grateful. Even if, perhaps, ‘good’ was a relative term.

Yes, it was true that you had a drunken bastard for a father, but at least he didn’t beat you as much when he was at his drunkest. And, okay, your girlfriend dumped you for the star footballer, but at least because you had not actually gone all the way with her, you didn’t contract herpes like that hapless star did. More often than not you never had a brolly with you when it rained, but sometimes there would be a warm fire burning in the flat when you got home, because your flatmate knew you never had a brolly with you and occasionally even a self-professed sociopath did something nice for his friend.

So, yes, Good was a relative concept.

Putting it another way, John Watson was always grateful for the crumbs he collected. If a man managed to gather enough crumbs it could almost be called a life worth living, he thought.

Take today, for example. He was enjoying himself and why not?

It was a warm and sunny afternoon. He was not at the surgery being thrown up on by obnoxious children. No one was shooting at him or trying to eviscerate his best friend. In actual fact, that friend and he were both sitting on a tartan blanket in Hyde Park. Having a freaking picnic, if that could be believed.  
Somehow the words “Sherlock Holmes” and “picnic in the park” would never have occurred to John as belonging in the same sentence. Or the same universe.

Back when he was a kid, before the old man was drunk quite so often, the Watson family had sometimes picnicked. Inevitably, that meant cheese and pickle sandwiches, crisps, Victoria sponge, all washed down with lukewarm lemonade or milky tea from a flask. And because, after all, it was the Watson family involved, most often the day ended in tears. That, in his experience, was a picnic.

Well, both the company and the food on this occasion were very different. And there had been no tears yet, but the afternoon was still young.

John had been surprised when Sherlock swanned into the flat [and honestly…swanning? Who the hell did that?], carrying a wicker hamper from Fortnum and Masons. “John,” he proclaimed [well, if one could swan into a flat on Baker Street, one could also bloody well proclaim, right?] “Get dressed. We are going on a picnic.”

“What?” John said stupidly. He had never really thought of himself as stupid until he’d started living with a Genius. Side effect.

There. That was the very look that had convinced him of his intellectual shortcomings.

“A picnic, John. Commonly understood to refer to alfresco dining.” Sherlock waved an impatient hand in his direction. “Dress, John. Something casual.”

As differentiated from all his usual formal attire, he assumed snarkily. Then he eyed Sherlock’s perfectly tailored black suit.

Sherlock at least had the grace to look slightly abashed.

Someday John would have to do a paper [blog post] on why living with Sherlock Holmes made one frequently use a vocabulary more suited to a 19th century novel. So far today, the tally included swanning, proclaiming, and now abashed. Not to mention rapscallion, which had come up at the breakfast table for reasons he was still not sure of.

“Oh. Right,” Sherlock said. Then he flashed a genuine smile at John. “I’ll change as well, of course.”

John’s insides did what they always did when Sherlock sent him that particular smile. And John ignored his treacherous insides as he always did.

So now here they were, dining alfresco in the park, both of them stretched out on the blanket. John was in khakis and an old RAMC teeshirt. Casual, as ordered. Sherlock was in [perfectly tailored, of course] blue jeans and a pink [?!] Ralph Lauren polo shirt. It was, frankly, a sight that made John’s mouth go a little dry, which was better, he supposed, than drooling, which was his first reaction. Yes, dry mouth was definitely better than drool. [Crumbs, remember?]

They had opened the hamper and he was not in the least surprised to find that there was no cheddar or pickle in sight. Instead, there was prosciutto, a creamy brie, and crusty bread that was still slightly warm in the center. There were fresh strawberries alongside a bowl of double Devon cream. And there was a bottle of some rather amazing wine. With a certain amount of unnecessary but entirely delightful panache, Sherlock poured the golden liquid into two Waterford glasses. The crystal made a lovely sound when they shared a silent toast, smirking at one another.

By this time, of course, Sherlock had explained that all of this was for a case. What else? They were actually surveilling a young man and woman who were also enjoying a picnic a short distance away. John did wonder what on earth they could have done to garner the detective’s attention. They just looked like an ordinary couple, in love, and eating sandwiches and crisps. Sherlock, of course, did not elucidate.

For his part, John did not allow himself to be either disappointed or disgruntled to find out that they were on a case. Of course, they were, and what else, after all, had he expected?

Without a doubt, there were compensations. Not the least of which was watching Sherlock Holmes dip a plump red strawberry into the heavy cream and then put it between his lips and…well, caress it. That was the only word that fit, John decided. Being able to watch that moment was no freaking crumb, either. It was a whole loaf. [John wondered what the alcohol content of this wine actually was.]

He reached for a strawberry himself. Oddly, Sherlock seemed to be watching him instead of the couple. John realised that some strawberry juice was dribbling from his mouth. Great. Been eating long, Watson? He stuck the tip of his tongue out and licked the juice away.

The sun seemed to have reddened the skin over Sherlock’s cheekbones. After a moment, the other man swallowed and looked away.  
John felt a passing urge to reach out and… And what? But then it occurred to him that maybe he’d had a little too much of that really very nice vintage. Just as he decided that, Sherlock leaned closer to pour some more of the nectar into John’s glass. 

“I probably shouldn’t,” he muttered.

Sherlock only smiled. He lifted his own glass and took a slow sip, then, even more slowly, licked his upper lip.

John wondered if maybe he had died and gone to heaven. Probably not, but it was one explanation.

Trying to gain some modicum of control over his raging…well, whatever was raging [and there were several things, honestly], John turned his gaze towards the couple they were staking out, only to discover that they were packing up and getting ready to leave. “Sherlock,” he said, “we better---“

Sherlock didn’t seem bothered. “Oh, it’s all right,” he said, picking up another strawberry and seducing it.

“But---“

“I lied, John,” Sherlock said then, leaning back and propping himself on his elbows.

“Lied about what?” Sherlock lying was no new thing; sometimes it was like breathing for him. Only less boring.

“There is no case. That was a perfectly innocent couple having a romantic picnic.” Sherlock paused, drinking more wine, licking that damned upper lip again. All the while, he was watching John from beneath his ridiculous curls. “Just like us.”

John looked around. Maybe there was a hidden camera. Because this whole thing had to be a joke, didn’t it? Or maybe some twisted experiment, in which case he had to wonder what the legal penalty was for murdering your extremely annoying flatmate. But he saw nothing out of the ordinary. “Just…like us?” he said, wondering why his voice sounded raspy.

“Drink some more wine, John,” Sherlock advised kindly.

So John swallowed some more wine and waited to see what was going to happen next.

He thought that possibly it was going to be good. And not just Collect the Crumbs of Life good.

No, he thought that maybe this was going to be the best thing ever in the life of John Hamish Watson.

fini


End file.
